April 3nd. 4:00
Frank wakes up, not being able to fall back asleep so he starts thinking
Frank knew going after the Irish wasn't going to be as straightforward as his last fight. The Dogs of Hell were sloppy, loud, and brash. Bikers were easy to track, easy to bait. But the Irish? They ran tight circles, stayed among their own, and had deep roots in the city. They'd been around forever, long before powers even became a thing. That meant they were more paranoid, more careful. If they had parahumans in their ranks, they'd keep them out of sight until they needed them.
But that didn't mean he couldn't bleed them. It just means he needs to start early, and get more info, Frank decides to ready up and get started.
The night air was thick with the smell of the city was the same as always: hot garbage, gasoline, and the faint salt of the Hudson. Frank moved with purpose, keeping to the shadows, sticking to alleys and avoiding well lit streets. He kept his shotgun slung over his back beneath his coat and his pistol holstered at his hip. He still had his knife, tucked away in his boot, ready for close work if things got messy.
The plan was simple. Find their people. Kill a few. Get answers.
But the execution was always the tricky part.
The Irish had bars, safehouses, spots where they did business, but they were smart about keeping their operations spread out. One place would handle smuggling, another would move drugs, and another would be a front for laundering money. That meant no single hit would cripple them. He needed names. He needed locations where their leadership actually met.
Which meant he needed someone who knew more than the street-level grunts.
The first two guys he hit were exactly that grunts. Drunk, armed, and thinking they were untouchable, standing outside a shitty bar a few blocks from Hell's Kitchen. Frank waited until one stepped into the alley to piss before he struck, his knife flashing in the dark, slicing deep through the man's throat before he could even let out a sound. He caught him as he fell, lowering him quietly to the ground, blood spilling out in hot pulses onto the pavement.
The second one wasn't so easy.
He noticed when his buddy didn't come back. He called out, took a few steps toward the alley, but Frank was already moving. He grabbed the guy from behind, yanked him into the darkness, and slammed him against the brick wall. His pistol was already pressed into the man's gut before he could react.
"Where's your boss?" Frank growled low, keeping his voice just above a whisper.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about, man."
Frank shoved the barrel harder into his stomach. "Wrong answer."
The guy gritted his teeth, eyes darting around like he thought someone might come help him. "Screw you."
Frank sighed, adjusting his grip, then without another word, he twisted the guy's wrist with enough force to snap it. The sharp, sickening crack was almost drowned out by the man's strangled scream.
"Shhh." Frank pressed a gloved hand over his mouth. "Try again."
The guy was shaking now, gasping, eyes wide with pain. "I-I don't know, man! We don't-bosses don't tell us shit, we just-fuck, we just run security, move product. We don't get names, they don't tell us where the real meets happen!"
Frank watched his face carefully. No hesitation. No tells that he was lying.
Damn it.
He already knew that much.
Still, he had to be sure. "Who handles your powered muscle?"
The guy was panting, sweating, fear taking over now. "I don't know, man, I swear. They keep us away from that stuff, it's all on a need-to-know basis-"
Frank sighed. He didn't have time for more dead ends.
He pulled the trigger.
The man slumped against the wall, sliding down lifelessly, blood pooling beneath him. Frank wiped his glove clean against the guy's jacket before stepping back into the street, it was nearing dawn so he had to get going before daybreak.
The mission had been a bust.
They weren't going to give up their power players easily, not to some street-level muscle. He needed a different approach.
He'd think about it in the morning.
For now, he needed to go back to sleep
By the time Frank got back to his temporary hideout, his body was screaming at him to get some sleep. He locked the door, barricaded it, checked his weapons, then stashed his gear in a safe spot before settling in. The room was cold, but he didn't care. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, staring at the ceiling, running through everything he knew, everything he still had to figure out.
Then everything went black.
He woke up to the feeling of something tightening around his throat.
His body reacted before his mind fully registered what was happening. He twisted, bucking against the weight pressing down on him, but the hands holding him down were strong, too strong. A bag was shoved over his head, cutting off his vision, and suddenly he was being dragged, forced up onto his feet.
He lashed out, trying to pull free, but a fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. His knees nearly buckled, but they didn't let him fall. Another blow to the ribs, then a sharp pain in his leg as something hard, maybe a baton cracked against him.
Fuck.
Whoever they were, they were professionals.
Then he felt the cold press of metal against his temple, and everything stopped.
A deep voice spoke close to his ear. "Try to fight again, and you'll be dead before you hit the ground."
Frank forced himself to stay still, breathing heavy, heart pounding.
He had been careful. He had been sure no one had followed him.
And yet, here he was.
He let them take him, for now.
Because the second they let their guard down, he was going to kill every last one of them.
The grip on Frank's arms was tight as they dragged him down the stairs, his boots scraping against the steps. He kept his breathing steady, forcing his mind to stay clear despite the throbbing pain in his ribs. The bastards who had worked him over were professionals. Not the usual street thugs he'd dealt with before.
He heard a door swing open, then felt the cold air hit him as they stepped outside. The city's usual noise honking horns, distant sirens were muffled. Then he was lifted, tossed forward like a bag of trash. He barely had time to brace before he hit the metal floor of a van, pain jolting up his side.
The doors slammed shut behind him.
The van started moving immediately.
Frank flexed his fingers, testing the restraints around his wrists. Zip ties. Tight, but not unbreakable. He could work with that later. Right now, he focused on counting the turns they took, trying to map out the drive in his head. Left, right, another right. A short drive. Maybe ten minutes, fifteen at most. Not enough time to leave Hell's Kitchen. They were still in the neighborhood.
The van lurched to a stop.
The doors swung open, and before he could react, hands grabbed him again. He was yanked out, his boots barely touching the pavement before he was shoved forward. A doorway, a dimly lit corridor, then a sharp turn into another room.
Then came the chair.
They forced him down, securing him tight his arms behind his back, legs bound to the chair's legs. Someone ripped the bag off his head, and his eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. A basement, maybe a back room of some abandoned building. Cement walls, exposed pipes along the ceiling.
And then he saw the man standing in front of him.
Well-dressed, but not flashy. Dark suit, no tie, sleeves rolled up. Stocky build, broad shoulders. Hands calloused, the kind that had thrown plenty of punches in their time.
But it was the voice that gave it away.
Thick Irish accent. Controlled, but unmistakable.
"So," the man said, pacing slowly in front of him. "You're the one stirring up trouble in my city."
Frank didn't respond. He just studied the guy, memorizing his face, his mannerisms.
The man sighed. "I'll be honest with you. I don't know who the hell you are. Some people think you're a hired gun. Others think you're just some lunatic with a vendetta. Me?" He leaned in slightly, staring hard at Frank. "I think you're a man who doesn't know when he's out of his depth."
Frank smirked. "That supposed to scare me?"
The Irishman chuckled, shaking his head. "No. This is."
The punch came fast. A sharp crack against Frank's jaw, rattling his skull. His head snapped to the side, but he didn't make a sound.
Another blow, this time to his ribs. A fresh jolt of pain shot through him, and he let out a slow breath through his nose.
The Irishman stepped back, flexing his knuckles. "See, I don't like unanswered questions. And right now, you're a big one. You hit the Dogs of Hell. That's fine, they were nothing but animals anyway. But now you come after my boys? That makes it my business."
Frank stayed quiet, rolling his jaw, tasting blood in his mouth.
The man continued. "So here's how this works. You tell me who you're working for. Tell me why you're coming after us. Maybe I'll let you walk out of here in one piece."
Frank met his eyes, calm, unreadable. "Go fuck yourself."
The Irishman sighed, shaking his head. "See, I was hoping you'd say that."
Then came another punch. Harder this time.
Frank's vision blurred for a second, but he stayed upright, breathing steady.
The Irishman cracked his knuckles again, then leaned down, voice lower now. "Let's try this again. Who sent you?"
Frank spit blood onto the floor. "Your mother."
Another punch, this time to the gut.
Frank coughed, but laughed slightly. "She hits harder."
The Irishman exhaled through his nose, his patience wearing thin. "You think this is funny?"
Frank didn't answer.
The man studied him for a long moment, then stepped back, turning to one of his men. "Get the knife."
The tension in the room thickened.
Frank shifted slightly, testing the chair's strength, gauging his options.
This wasn't just some low-level punk. This guy was someone important. Someone with authority. A lieutenant, maybe even higher. That meant he knew things. Things Frank needed.
But first, he had to get out of this chair.
And when he did, he was going to make them regret not killing him when they had the chance.
Blood trickled down Frank's arm, warm against his skin. The blade had cut deep, not enough to cripple him, but enough to hurt like hell. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give them the reaction they wanted. The Irishman watched, expression calm, the knife still in his hand.
"See, this is the part where most people start talking," the man mused, twirling the blade between his fingers. "Pain has a way of loosening lips."
Frank just stared at him, unblinking.
The Irishman sighed and leaned in, pressing the flat of the blade against Frank's cheek. "I'll give you credit. You've got stones. But I wonder… how much can you really take before you start breaking?"
Frank let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as best as he could in the chair. His muscles burned, his wrist throbbed where the zip ties dug into his skin, but none of it mattered. The pain was just noise. Background static. He'd been through worse.
He needed information.
So, he played the part.
He exhaled sharply, tilting his head slightly as if he was giving in. "Alright…" His voice was hoarse. "At least tell me who I'm talking to."
The Irishman smirked. "Oh, now you want to know?"
Frank just stared.
The man let the silence stretch, then finally nodded. "Name's Aidan O'Reilly."
O'Reilly. That name meant something. Frank had done enough digging into the Irish to know that the O'Reilly family wasn't just some street gang. They were bloodline deep in the city's underworld. Aidan wasn't just some lieutenant. He was connected heir to something bigger.
"Ah," Frank murmured. "You're one of his grandkids."
Aidan's smirk twitched slightly, but he kept his composure. "So you do know a little something."
Frank let his head rest back against the chair. "You're a long way from the penthouse, kid. What, you got tired of running daddy's businesses? Wanted to get your hands dirty?"
Aidan's eyes darkened slightly. "You got a real mouth on you."
Frank chuckled. "Yeah, and you got no clue who you just pissed off."
Aidan didn't respond immediately. Instead, he pressed the tip of the knife into Frank's shoulder, just enough to break skin.
Frank exhaled sharply through his nose, but he didn't flinch.
Aidan studied him. "You think I'm afraid of you? You're just one man. We've buried bigger threats than you before."
Frank gave him a slow, bloody grin. "Then you're not paying attention."
Aidan's grip on the knife tightened slightly. A flicker of something passed through his eyes annoyance? Uncertainty? Didn't matter.
Frank had learned what he needed to.
He wasn't just dealing with some mid-level thug. He was sitting across from a legacy. The grandson of the Irish godfather.
And that meant when Frank broke out of this chair…
Aidan O'Reilly was going to be his message.
Frank didn't hesitate. He surged forward, ignoring the screaming pain in his arms, and smashed his forehead into Aidan's nose. A sickening crack filled the room as blood spurted from the younger man's face. Aidan stumbled back with a strangled curse, his knife clattering to the floor.
Frank twisted his wrists, gritting his teeth as he forced his arms through the zip ties, yanking until the plastic cut into his skin. With a final snap, the restraints gave way. His hands were free.
Aidan barely had time to recover before Frank was on him. He wrapped an arm around the Irishman's throat and yanked him close, using his body as a shield.
"Drop it!" one of the guards shouted, his gun aimed directly at Frank.
Frank shifted his grip, pressing his forearm harder against Aidan's windpipe. "Go ahead," he growled. "Shoot. Let's see if you can put one in me before I crush his throat."
The room was tense, filled with the heavy breathing of the thugs, the low whimpering from Aidan as he struggled against Frank's iron grip.
Frank's eyes flicked between the men. Three of them. Armed. Hesitant.
Good.
Aidan clawed at his arm, trying to gasp out something, but Frank wasn't in the mood to let him talk his way out.
His eyes locked on the closest gunman. Then, without warning, he moved.
Frank shoved Aidan forward, making the nearest thug stumble as he instinctively reached for his boss. In the same motion, Frank lunged, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting. The gun discharged, the shot going wide.
Frank ripped the weapon from his grip and turned it on the others. Three quick shots. Center mass. The thugs barely had time to react before they dropped.
One left.
The man scrambled for his gun, but Frank didn't give him the chance. He stepped forward and fired a round straight through his skull.
Silence.
Aidan groaned on the floor, clutching his ruined nose.
Frank exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. His arms burned from the strain, blood dripped from his wrists where the zip ties had cut him, but it didn't matter.
He checked the gun full mag, one in the chamber. Good.
He turned his gaze back to Aidan.
Now, it was time to finish the interrogation.
Frank crouched down next to Aidan, who was still groaning in pain, his face a bloody mess. He pressed the barrel of the gun against his forehead, forcing Aidan to look up at him.
"Where's your boss?" Frank asked, his voice steady, cold.
Aidan spat blood onto the floor, grimacing as he tried to breathe through his broken nose. "You're a dead man," he rasped, his Irish accent thick through the pain.
Frank cocked the gun. "Wrong answer."
Aidan clenched his jaw, eyes flickering between the bodies around them. He knew he wasn't getting out of this alive. Might as well make it count.
"The old man's got a place in the Bronx," Aidan muttered. "Big house. Security everywhere. You won't get close."
Frank absorbed the information, nodding slightly. "Now parahumans. Who do you got?"
Aidan's lips twisted into a grin. Then he started laughing.
Frank pressed the gun harder against his skull. "Something funny?"
"You don't have a damn clue what you're walking into," Aidan chuckled, blood dripping down his chin.
Frank studied him for a second, then sighed. He wasn't getting anything else.
Click.
The gunshot echoed through the room as Aidan's body slumped back, lifeless.
Frank took a breath, glancing at the carnage around him. This had been too loud, too messy. The cops or worse, the PRT would be sniffing around soon.
He got to work quickly, dragging the bodies into a loose circle, placing guns in their hands, and making sure the scene looked like an internal shootout. A few scuff marks on the floor, a couple of extra rounds in the walls it didn't have to be perfect, just good enough for whoever found it to assume they turned on each other.
Once he was satisfied, he grabbed an extra magazine from one of the corpses, wiped his prints from anything he touched, and slipped out the way he came.
Once he was sure he had everything he needed, he took a deep breath and slipped out into the alleyway, the cold air hitting him like a slap. The streets were quiet, but that wouldn't last. Someone was going to find the scene soon. He needed to move.
The Bronx. The old man.
If Aidan had been telling the truth, the Irish boss was holed up in a heavily guarded house, probably expecting trouble. But expecting trouble and being ready for it were two different things.
Frank ducked into the shadows, disappearing into the city. He had to start moving the Irish where going to be on him again soon enough.
Yeah, been a bit whoops. This chapter is a little rough flow wise, but I'm sure you guys got it under control